


Snow Days

by Jo (jmathieson)



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Chess, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 17:04:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmathieson/pseuds/Jo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During New York's 'Blizzard of the Century', Finch feels trapped in his own home. Reese and Bear walk across New York in the blizzard to come to Finch's rescue. New York is without power, so the machine is blind. At Finch's house, Finch and Reese talk, play chess, and talk some more. They each share some of their past, and some of their feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chinese translation by [lzqsk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lzqsk/profile) available on AO3: [Snow Days (Chinese Translation)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10382580)

The news stations had been working themselves into a frenzy for the past few days over 'The Nor'easter of the Century' and 'Snowmageddon.' There were dire warnings about flashlights and bottled water, advance school and business closures, and the usual stripping of grocery store shelves that went along with the hype. 

It was background noise to Harold Finch and John Reese as they worked their latest number, a high-school principal targeted by one of his students. Reese had gone undercover as one of the school's security guards, and Finch had hacked the boy's computer, retrieving records of the bomb-making materials that the teenager had purchased over the Internet using his mother's credit card. The only difficulty in the case had been slight: making sure the evidence was both unequivocal and easy to find for the police unit that would be investigating once Reese pointed the bomb squad to the boy's locker. Smart kids do remarkably stupid things, sometimes.

The snow was falling steadily the next day as Finch and Reese sat in the library, Reese reading a book on the history of the Island of Malta, and Finch tapping away at his computer. Bear snored softly from his bed.

"I'm going to go get some air, and walk Bear around the block - do you want anything, Mr. Reese?"

Reese glanced up from his reading.

"Do you want me to come with you?" In the weeks after Finch's captivity by Root and the resulting agoraphobia, Reese had gotten into the habit of making the offer, leaving Finch to accept or decline based on how well he was coping that day, or indeed, if he just felt like having the company.

"Thank you, that won't be necessary. Coffee?" 

"I'm fine, thanks. Have a nice walk."

Reese knew that Finch was going out to walk past a public pay phone, to see if there was a new number for them or not. 

After Finch left with Bear, Reese got up and walked restlessly around the library, stopping to look out a window at the falling snow. Maybe this storm was going to be serious after all. Mentally, he reviewed the library, then his loft apartment: Emergency back-up power, check. Food and water, check. Communications, check, so long as the cell towers still had power. That was something he should discuss with Finch. They used cell phones almost exclusively for their anonymity, and traceability, but they were much more vulnerable to power outages than landlines. They had the emergency dead drop land line, of course, but using it would slow down communications in a serious situation. Radios, maybe - something military and rechargeable; range would be the major limitation, of course, though they could easily and discretely install a few extra antennas, one here on the roof of the library for a start...

Reese was still working on the problem in his head when he heard Finch returning with Bear. He turned to see his partner shaking the thick snow off his overcoat.

"Well?" Reese asked.

"No new number," Finch said, knowing full well what the question meant, "and it really is getting quite nasty out there."

Finch went over to his desk but didn't sit down. He tapped a few keys and pulled up the National Weather Service website. Reese followed and stood behind him to look over his shoulder at the screen.

"Sever Winter Storm Warning for New York City and Surrounding Area" blazed a red headline. "Severe winter storm predicted to last more than 48 hours and drop 24 inches or more of snow. Persons in or near the affected areas are urged to stay indoors and not travel unless absolutely necessary. Roads will be dangerous or impassable. All trains, subways, and ferries cancelled. Federal employees have been sent home and Emergency Services are on standby. Widespread power outages are possible. Click here for emergency preparation guidelines for homeowners."

Finch did not click the highlighted link, but instead brought up a radar map of New York. Reese whistled low through his teeth as he saw the large purple mass just off the coast, and looked at the wind speed indicators on the sidebar of the radar map.

"That is one hell of a storm," Reese said.

"I think we should get out of here while we still can, then, Mr. Reese. I'll call you if anything comes up."

Reese waited while Finch shut down his computers, packed his laptop into a bag, and turned off the generator for the library.

"Come on Bear," he said, snapping on the dog's leash, "We're going home."

The two men and the dog left the building together, but paused on the sidewalk. Reese hunched into his overcoat and Finch winced at the snow blowing into his face. The streets and sidewalks were already nearly deserted.

"See you after this blows over, I guess," said Finch.

"I hope you don't have far to go in this." Reese said, partly playing his usual game of trying to discover where Finch lived, but mostly out of actual concern. Walking very far through this heavy snow was going to be rough on his friend, and there weren't any taxis around.

"I'll be fine, Mr. Reese, thank you for your concern. However, I think I will ask you to take Bear home with you. If it does get as bad as they are predicting, I might have difficulty getting out later to take him for walks."

"Sure, he can stay with me for a couple of days. See you later then."

Finch handed over Bear's leash, and nodded, then turned to go. Reese stood there, watching him limp away through the snow. He felt uneasy about letting Finch go in this weather; worried that he might have trouble making it safely to wherever it was he was going. Reese felt the urge to insist on going with him, to keep him safe, but shoved it aside. Besides, Finch had said to Bear, 'We're going home.' If Finch's destination was the place he thought of as 'home,' he definitely would not want Reese accompanying him there.

"Finch!" he called through the falling snow. The retreating figure stopped and turned, "Call me if you need anything."

"I will," Finch shouted back, then gave a little wave, and turned back into the blizzard. Reese watched until he turned a corner, considered for a minute trying to follow him, then decided against it and said to Bear, "Come on, then."

~~~

Knowing that Reese's eyes were on him, Finch kept up the fastest, strongest pace he could until he had turned the corner. Then he slowed considerably and drew in a heaving, ragged breath. And then coughed as he inhaled a lungful of snowflakes. He cursed his own pride for making him stride confidently away from Reese. 

'I don't want him to worry about me,' he tried to convince himself, when the truth was that he hated feeling weak and incapable around Reese. He hated it in general, of course; it frustrated and frightened him, but his limitations bothered him more when Reese was around and watching. Not that Reese ever drew any attention to his limp or lack of mobility; Reese was even courteous, or perhaps compassionate and understanding enough never to try open doors or carry things for him. No, Reese just let him get on with it, trusting he'd ask for help when he needed it. 

Which he did. When he absolutely had to, but only then. He needed his autonomy, and much as he might like to, he couldn't afford to start relying on Reese's help for everyday difficulties. Finch needed to be able to get by on his own, otherwise he was lost. But, he admitted to himself, mostly it was pride. He didn't want Reese to think of him as weak, incapable, a cripple. He wanted Reese's respect.

The wind was stronger here, blowing straight at him and freezing the tips of his ears already. He tried to hunch lower into his coat, and started moving again, setting a pace slow enough not to over-tax his bad leg, but fast enough to keep warm. 

"Damn good thing I stepped up the exercise program otherwise I'm not sure I'd actually be able to do this." He had started exercising more when it became clear that he was going to be taking a more active role in some of their cases than he had originally envisioned, and then again after his recent captivity. He was never going to regain the lost mobility, but he could be stronger, faster, better prepared. How far he still had to go quickly became clear.

His home was ten New York City blocks from the library, which was normally an easy fifteen-minute walk, even for him, but now he would be fighting the dragging snow and driving wind for all ten. As he struggled forward, he reviewed his options. He could try calling a cab, but considering how few he'd seen, most of them weren't running and the ones that were must be booked solid - even if he played the millionaire card, and offered to make it worth the driver's while, he would probably be waiting hours in the snow - not an option. He could stop at a hotel and book a room. There were two problems with that idea - first, the closest hotel was still four blocks away, and second, he hated the idea of being on unknown territory during this weather. He was already feeling vulnerable; letting himself be trapped in a building he didn't know would make matters worse. There was one other option he had: one of the limousine hire services he used regularly had a fleet of Hummer-Limos. Under normal circumstances he thought they were ridiculous, but this might just be the time and the place for an absurd vehicle. If he couldn't make it home, he would call the limo place, and have them send out a Hummer to get him. 

~~~

Back at his apartment, Reese hung up his wet coat, then got a towel from the kitchen to wipe as much of the melted snow as he could off Bear. Of course, as soon as he finished, Bear gave himself a shake, sending a fine spray into Reese's face.

"Thanks, like I wasn't already wet enough."

He put out food and water for the dog, and then spent the next twenty minutes double-checking all the emergency gear and preparations in the apartment. The building had an emergency generator and gas heating, and Reese's apartment had a gas stove, so warmth wouldn't be a problem. He put a flashlight and some candles near to hand, double-checked his stock of bottled water and canned food, and checked the batteries in a small portable radio. Satisfied with the state of the apartment, he went on a recce around the building, noting how much snow was building up at the various exits, and making sure he could get into the super's store-room for a shovel, if he needed to.

Building secure and escape routes still passable, he went back up to his apartment and cooked himself dinner. 

~~~

Four blocks of painful struggle later, Finch stopped for breath in the lee of a building doorway. There was a hotel across the road and he again considered going in, putting his black American Express card on the reception desk, and asking for their best suite. But his usual paranoia had been ratcheted into high gear by the storm and the impassability of the roads, and he couldn't face the thought of being trapped, helpless, on unknown territory. He needed to get home. Home was safe, home had locks and bars and cameras and alarms and a generator and food and water and his bed. He pulled out his phone and dialed the number for the limo service, and got a busy signal. He obviously wasn't the only one who had thought of the Hummer Limos as a solution. He looked up into the storm and set himself a goal - halfway up the block from where he was there was a yellow-and-blue blinking neon sign for a Ukrainian restaurant. He would stop and try calling the limo service again when he got there. 

To distract himself from the snow, cold, pain, and tiredness, he mentally reviewed his emergency preparations: Emergency back-up power, check. Food and water, check. Communications, check - the house had a landline as well as a cable-telephone service, even if a power failure knocked out the cell towers, he would be able to call... Reese. If he needed help, he would call Reese and Reese would come, no matter what. The certainty of it stood like a granite pillar in his consciousness. And his pride kept him moving when the number for the limo service was still busy. 

When he finally made it to the gate that guarded the short, narrow front courtyard of his townhouse, he was shaking from cold and exhaustion. With trembling hands he unlocked the deadbolt, and then punched the alarm code into the electronic lock. He struggled to pull the gate open wide enough against the snowdrift so that he could step through. Once inside the courtyard, he forced himself to slowly and carefully lock it behind him. The dozen steps through the snow up the walk to the door felt like a mile, and the three stairs up to the door left him panting for breath. It took all the self-discipline he had to calm his shaking hands enough to unlock the two deadbolts and second electronic lock. He stepped into the entryway, and shut the door behind himself. Fighting an urge to collapse onto the floor, he carefully locked the door and re-set the security system. That done, he dragged in a huge sigh of relief and leaned against the wall of the hallway, catching his breath. He'd made it. He was home. He was safe. The thought crossed his mind to call Reese to let him know, but he dismissed it. Instead he took off his heavy wet coat and hung it on the coat-tree to dry. 

'Tea, then dry clothes, then check the emergency preparations, and the security system, then bed,' he decided, discarding the idea of a hot shower only because, good as it would feel, it would involve standing on his aching left leg for another ten minutes. 

~~~

After he had eaten, Reese stood staring out the big loft windows. The snow whipped by like something he hadn't seen since he got stuck in a cave in the mountains of northern Afghanistan in '98. It was so thick he couldn't see the trees in the park across the street, and could barely make out the red and green glow of the nearest streetlights. He wondered if Finch was all right, and assumed he must be, given that he hadn't heard otherwise, but that didn't stop him worrying, just a little. OK, maybe more than a little. He had come to care deeply for his friend, and that made him want to protect and take care of the man who had saved his life, and given him something to live for. 

A whine from the corner reminded him of his other new responsibility. 

"You need to go out before we settle in for the night, don't you?" Reese opened a closet and considered his clothing choices. They would probably only be walking around the block, but still, his training and paranoia wouldn't let him set foot outdoors in this weather unless he was dressed for winter survival. He got out his thermal long johns and sock liners, a pair of wool socks, black combat pants, paratrooper’s boots, a black wool sweater with a high zippered neck and a warmly lined nylon bomber jacket. A pair of insulated leather gloves and a black knitted watch cap completed the outfit. Dressing only took a couple of minutes, and then he picked up Bear's leash and snapped it to the dog's collar.

"Let's go see what this storm can do, right buddy?"

Quite a lot, it seemed. Reese had seen a lot of bad weather in a lot of places, but he had to admit that this was pretty impressive. The snow drifts were over four feet high in places, and the roads were completely impassable, for the most part. A few streets over he could hear the rumble of a plough, and further away, faintly, the whine of a fire truck siren. There was at least a foot-and-a-half of heavy, wet snow on the sidewalks which didn't seem to bother Bear too much. Reese slogged through it, keeping an eye out for any kind of threat coming at them through the blizzard, but the streets were deserted. It seemed everyone in this neighborhood, at least, had taken the warnings to heart and were holed up indoors. They went around the block once, and Bear sat down, panting, as soon as they got back to the front of John's building, so he took that to mean the dog had had enough. 

Back in his apartment, he undressed and carefully laid the clothes out over a couple of chairs near the radiators to dry; he would need them the next morning to take Bear out again. He turned on the radio and listened to the news reports about the storm for a few minutes - the airports and most of the roads were closed, accidents abounded, unlucky motorists were trapped on the freeways and in the tunnels, the ploughs were being dispatched only with the ambulances and fire trucks to clear the way for emergency vehicles. The 911 lines were jammed and citizens were being exhorted to 'Please only call in a serious emergency.'

Reese switched the radio off, read for an hour, and went to bed.

~~~

Harold Finch climbed gratefully, painfully into bed and burrowed under the covers. It was only 9:30 pm, but he was sure he'd be asleep almost instantly after the day he'd had. He took off his glasses, put them on the bedside table, lay back, and utterly failed to fall asleep. His nerves were still frayed, his muscles were taut, and his bad leg ached. He forced himself to relax, to take deep, slow breaths. He ran through a basic mediation in his head, which left him feeling slightly calmer, but nothing more. He wished Bear were here with him, curled up at the foot of the bed, snoring softly. Having Bear around was almost as good as having Reese around; both made him feel safer, and less alone. He thought again about calling Reese, ostensibly to check on Bear, but really, just because he wanted to hear his friend's voice. Finch knew what that really meant and deliberately turned his thoughts away from John Reese. He could hear the wind whistling outside, and thought about the storm, the snow, the deep drifts outside his front and back doors. 'I'm safe here,' he told himself. 'It's OK.' But the whistling wind continued to play on his frayed nerves, no matter how firmly he told himself that he was over-reacting to the stress of the day, that the house was perfectly secure, that nothing was going to happen. 

After almost an hour of failing to sleep, Finch got back out of bed and stepped into the en-suite bathroom. He opened the medicine cabinet and looked at his options. His hand wavered between two bottles, the one that did little for the pain, but left him completely alert, and the one that would manage to dull the worst of the ache, but leave him slightly dopey. 

"If the goal is to fall asleep..." he thought to himself, but he couldn't shake the paranoia he was feeling. Finally he came to a decision, took the bottle of strong opiate out of the cabinet, and set it beside the sink. Then he put on a robe and a pair of slippers and went through the house from basement to attic, again, hobbling painfully up and down two flights of stairs, re-checking every door, every window, every lock and alarm. 

Satisfied, he went back to his room, swallowed two of the pills with a gulp of water, and went back to bed. 

He lay on his back, waiting for relief. Waiting for sleep. Unbidden, Reese's face came to mind. The strong jaw, the graying hair, the big, deep blue eyes. Oh, those eyes. Usually hooded, cold, wary - but sometimes, only sometimes when they looked at him, warm and caring, and once, just the once, happy. 

'I shouldn't,' Finch thought to himself. 'I can't afford...' and tried to push the image from his mind, as usual. But the fog of the narcotic was intruding, and his usually ordered mind wouldn't quite do his bidding. Reese's face swam in front of his eyes.

'Maybe just this once. I need to relax, to sleep.'

Harold gave himself over to the vision in his head. He let himself think about Reese, Reese's face, Reese's body, his strength. The feel of Reese's strong arms around him as the man half-carried him out of the train station after his abduction by Root. He thought of the warm comfortable companionship they had shared a week later, Reese talking him through his response to the incident, over glasses of single-malt whiskey, never once making him feel weak or helpless for reacting the way he did. Sharing some of his own past traumas to make Finch feel better. But always it came back to the face, the eyes. Lying in the dark, Finch for once let himself imagine that he was looking into those deep blue eyes and seeing a reflection of his own desires. Not just for friendship, caring, love - he already had those, he knew, but for more, for intimacy. Finch let himself imagine that Reese was there, in his room, in his bed, leaning over him, supported on one powerful arm, looking deep into his eyes and touching him.

Finch snaked one hand up under the t-shirt he was wearing and brushed a fingertip across a nipple. Imagining Reese's hands - so strong, and yet so precise. Finch knew they would be gentle. With the other hand he pushed the waistband of his sweatpants down past his hips, wrapped his fingers around his engorged penis and started to stroke himself. He imagined Reese touching him, running those strong, gentle hands up and down his body. Reese kissing him on the lips, the neck, the shoulders, dipping his head to suckle a nipple. Reese spooned behind him, his big, meaty cock buried deep in Harold's ass, stroking him, wanting him, needing him, taking him, fucking him, loving him. Harold came with a cry and a sob, the shudders of ejaculation wracking his tired body. He sighed, rolled over, and fell into a fitful, and anything but restful, sleep.


	2. Day 2

John Reese woke early the next morning, got up and looked out at the snow, still swirling outside his window. The wind, if anything, was fiercer than it had been the night before and the temperature had dropped; he could feel the chill coming through the glass. He flicked a light switch to see if they still had power, they did and he couldn't hear or feel the hum of the building's generator, so the grid was probably still up, in his neighborhood, anyway. He made coffee, and breakfast. He fed Bear, and wondered what Finch was doing, and if he was OK. He briefly considered calling, to check on him, but he knew Harold wouldn't appreciate the invasion of his privacy. 

He turned on the radio. The storm was still raging with no end in sight. There were localized power failures around the city, numerous accidents, fires, and other emergencies, and the city's police, fire, and public works departments were coping as best they could. The mayor had promised to call in the National Guard if needed. 

Reese finished his coffee, then got dressed to take Bear out. 

~~~

Finch woke from a restless night feeling tired and sore. He levered himself out of bed, knowing the instant he tried to stand that it was going to be a day full of pain from his bad leg.

'Not at all surprising, considering what I did to it yesterday,' Finch thought. 'Well, nothing I can do but get on with it.'

Finch limped into the bathroom and swallowed two of the pills that didn't help the pain much, but left him alert. Then he stripped out of his clothes and took a long hot shower. Dressing was slow and uncomfortable, and the stairs down to the kitchen were a trial. 

He made himself a pot of tea and turned on the radio. The news reports of the storm were unnerving. The story about motorists trapped in the Queens-Midtown Tunnel made his heart pound, and he quickly switched off the radio. He got up and walked over to a window, and stood watching the snow swirl outside for some minutes before picking up his phone and dialing a number. 

~~~

Reese's phone rang as he was laying his clothes out to dry. He looked at the call display and wasn't very surprised to see it was Finch.

"Hi, Finch, you OK?"

"I'm fine, thank you, Mr. Reese. How are you and Bear?"

"We're just fine; you were right to send him home with me though, you would have never been able to walk him this morning - I had to shovel through a three-foot drift in front of my building just so that we could get out the door and we only made it down to the corner of the block and back."

"Yes, the snow is piled just as high outside my front door. Which is in fact, what I was calling about Mr. Reese. The company that does the maintenance work on my property has, understandably, leant all its resources to the efforts to free the trapped motorists in the tunnel, and so isn't available."

"You want me to come over and shovel your walk?" Reese failed to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

"Well, if you're busy with something else, of course, it's not urgent. In fact, it's completely un-necessary. Please forget I called, Have a nice day Mr. - "

"Harold. Don't hang up. Talk to me Harold, tell me what's wrong." Reese knew damn well that Finch would not have called him just to shovel the walk, or if he had, there was a good reason for him wanting his walk shoveled. He also knew exactly what it meant when Finch started to talk that fast, it meant his friend was close to panic. There was a pause on the other side of the line, and then, quietly,

"I feel trapped."

"I'll be there as soon as I can." Reese paused, waiting. "Finch?"

"Yes, Mr. Reese?"

"This is the part where you tell me the address."

"Of course. 214 East 51st Street. The code for the courtyard gate lock is 347392, but there's also a deadbolt that you'll need to pick because I locked it behind me last night, and I can't get to it to unlock it for you. It's a Schlange Primus lock, with..."

"Don't worry, Finch, I'll handle it."

"You should probably bring Bear with you because the storm's continuing to get worse and once you're here you may prefer to stay rather than make the trip back to your apartment. You're very welcome to, of course."

"Thanks, I'll bring my overnight bag."

"The lock on the courtyard gate is a 7-tumbler Schlange Primus, and the code for the electronic lock is..."

"347392, you already told me, Finch. It's going to be fine. I'll handle the lock. I'll be there in about 30 minutes, assuming Bear can keep up with me through the snow. If he can't, I'll have to carry him and that might slow me down a little. It's going to take me 5 minutes to change and pack. I'll call you with a better estimate as soon as I'm out on the street. Are you going to be OK until I get there?"

"Yes, yes, of course."

"OK, call me if you're not. I'd offer to leave the line open, but you probably don't want to listen to me breathing heavily and grunting for the next half an hour."

"No, I guess not."

"Talk to you soon."

"Yes. Mr. Reese?"

"Yes, Harold?"

"I just wanted to say... Please take care. And thank you."

"Anytime, Harold." Reese regretted his flippant tone for a second, considering how much it had obviously cost Finch to call him for help, but the flippancy was his defense mechanism - the way secrecy was Finch's - it was how he kept the world at bay, kept people from getting close enough to care about. Except Finch, of course; it hadn't worked on him, couldn't have worked on him. Finch had saved his life, given him a purpose, was helping him to slowly redeem his soul, if indeed such a thing were possible. He'd make it up to Finch later, he promised himself. Right now, he'd get his ass over there to help his friend.

Reese opened the closet where he kept his gear and started pulling out the pieces of equipment he thought he would need to walk 20-some blocks in the biggest blizzard New York City had ever seen. Snowshoes, obviously. Pack, first aid kit, two canteens, tarp, rope, survival kit, folding shovel, energy bars. He crossed over to his bureau. Extra socks, underwear, t-shirts. Bathroom for shaving kit. Kitchen for zip-lock bags. Back to the closet. Gun. He laid his Sig on the bed and dug a double-shoulder holster out of the closet. Then he considered the array of larger weapons on the wall in the closet before selecting a Ruger mini-14 with a collapsible stock. Folding the rifle, he shoved it in the rucksack, and then put an extra clip and two boxes of ammo for each weapon into a Ziploc bag and dropped that in too. The rest of the gear and clothing went on top. Then he filled two canteens from the kitchen tap. Watching the water run, and with a glance at the weather outside, he had a thought. Once the canteens were filled and packed into the rucksack, he hefted it to test the weight and balance. Satisfied, he quickly pulled on the still-damp clothes he had worn earlier that morning to take Bear out. They were only going to get wet again. He put the holster on over the wool sweater and adjusted the straps. At the front door he pulled the paratrooper’s boots back on and tied them carefully. He took a parka out of the hall closet, and then opened a utility hatch at the back, and turned off the levers for the water and gas to his apartment. He slid his cell phone into an inside pocket of the parka, and put his ear bud in. Then he took one last look around the apartment.

"Come on, Bear, we're going to visit Uncle Harold."

Reese shoved the dog's leash and his hat and gloves into the parka's pockets. Then he shouldered the rucksack, picked up the snowshoes, turned off the lights, and stepped out of the apartment. He locked both locks and set the electronic alarm. Taking the stairs two at a time, he headed for the basement. At the bottom of the stairs, he commanded Bear to stay, and then went around the corner and knocked on the Super's door.

"Hey, Mr. Warren - Don' tell me you're going out in this malaka?"

"A friend of mine, he's disabled, and he needs my help."

"Oh, the little guy with the glasses and the bad leg, yeah, I seen him wit' you sometimes. He OK?"

"I hope so - I've got to go make sure. I've turned off the water and the gas in my apartment, just in case we lose power, and I don't make if back for a few days - so you don't have to worry about my place, OK?"

"Hey, smart man, thanks! I wish all my tenants had as good a head as you. This guy must be a pretty good friend of yours for you to be going out in this storm for him."

"He's the best. Thanks, Nico."

"Good luck out there!"

At the front door to the apartment building, Reese squinted into the storm for a few seconds before crouching down to buckle on his snowshoes. 

"I hope you'll be all right in this, Bear. Just stay right behind me." He gave the Dutch command for "Fall In" and set off though the snow. Once he had a rhythm going with the snowshoes, he reached up to his ear.

"You there, Finch?"

"Mr. Reese, it's good to hear from you. How is it going?"

"I've just left my building. So far it's looking like 25 to 30 minutes, like I said, but a lot depends on the wind and the drifts. If I have to stop to dig my way through something, that'll slow me down. I'll let you know when I've made it to Lexington."

"Is Bear OK?"

Reese turned around to look at the snow-covered dog, following gamely behind him in the divots made by the snowshoes.

"He's doing fine so far. Don't worry, Harold, I'll keep a close eye on him."

"I'll have some beef stew for him, and some coffee ready for you when you get here."

"Sounds good. See you soon."

~~~

Finch got up from his desk and paced up and down the room once, then winced in pain and sat back down. And winced again. The strain he had put on his bad leg yesterday was coming back to haunt him, and the night of broken sleep hadn't helped any. He considered taking something for it, now that he knew Reese was en route, but decided against it. 'Once he's here, and I know he's safe and Bear is well, then maybe I’ll take something. Then maybe I'll be able to sleep.' Finch wished he could see where John was, but the city's surveillance cameras were completely useless in this blizzard, so he couldn't track him that way. He had considered asking John to leave the line open, but listened to his friend breathe had as he struggled through snow drifts wasn't going to set his mind at ease any, and John needed his breath for something other than talking to him. 

Finch turned to back to his computer and activated a trace on the GPS signal for Reese's phone, overlaid onto a map of New York, so that he could follow his progress that way. Then he had an idea. 

~~~

Reese had to stop shoveling and take his glove off before he could reach up to touch the button on the ear bud. By which time, his phone had "rung" three times, so he was expecting the worried hitch in Harold's voice when he finally answered.

"What's up, Harold?" he asked.

"Are you OK, John? Is anything wrong?"

"I'm fine. But I'm probably going to be a little later than planned. I'm digging myself out of a bit of a hole here."

"Did you fall?"

"No, I just got stuck in a four-foot deep snow drift. Don't worry, I'll be out soon."

"Is Bear OK?"

"He's fine. I checked his ears and paws for frostbite before I started shoveling."

"Frostbite! Oh my God, John, I didn't realize..."

"He's fine, Harold - I promise you. I won't let anything happen to him, and he's better built for this weather than I am, believe me - he's having a great time."

"I had an idea about a way to get you, and Bear, here a little faster. I hacked the Department of Sanitation's network so that I could access the GPS trackers on all the active snow removal crews."

"Of course you did."

"I thought that if I could find you a route where the snow had been cleared recently..."

"I'm all ears, Finch."

"You're at the corner of Lexington and 44th, is that correct?"

"If you're looking at the GPS on my phone, you'd know better than I would right now, but that sounds about right."

"A plow went by on Madison Avenue 40 minutes ago. There will have been some accumulation since, of course, but it will probably be much easier going than Lexington where you are now, and then you'll have a fairly clear run up to 51st."

"Sounds good Finch, I think I'm almost..." There was a loud grunt as Reese freed his left leg from the snow bank and struggled to his feet. "OK, I'm heading down past Central Station to Madison now. Call me if you get any more bright ideas."

"I will, Mr. Reese."

~~~

Once he reached Madison Avenue, the new route was considerably easier, and Reese was able to pick up his pace significantly, Bear trotting gamely behind him. Fifteen minutes later he was turning onto 51st Street, heading for a townhouse halfway down the block. Reese looked at the other houses on the street as he passed them and nodded to himself, approving of Finch's choice of hidey-hole. An entirely unremarkable, and completely anonymous row of upper-class real-estate in the middle of New York City. As they neared the correct address, Bear dashed out ahead of Reese and bounded though the drifts. By the time Reese joined him, he was sitting, panting at the courtyard gate, waiting for it to be opened. 

"I guess you've been here before," Reese said to the dog as he fished a set of lockpicks out of an inner pocket of the parka. He touched the ear bud before going to work on the lock.

"I'm at the gate, Harold. Be with you in a minute."

Reese finished picking the lock and then punched the combination into the electronic keypad. Bear was on his feet, whining in anticipation, and Reese looked up to see Finch standing at the open front door. Reese gave the gate a heave, and managed to make enough space for Bear to wiggle through, but it took him another few seconds and some serious muscle power to get the gate open wide enough to squeeze through himself. By the time he made it to the front door, Finch was already on his knees wiping Bear down with a towel. Reese watched as Finch struggled back to his feet, putting a hand on the wall of the narrow hallway for support.

"He'll need some water."

"His bowl is full. Bear - kitchen," Finch said to Reese, and then the dog, and Bear scampered down the hallway. 

"Bear seems to know his way around."

"Yes, he's been here before."

Reese made a quick decision to spare Finch any more awkwardness, for the moment at least, and said, "Actually, I could use some water too, before I go out to do that shoveling, but I don't want to drip on your floor."

"Let me get you a glass," Finch said, turning and heading down the hallway.

"Thanks." 

Reese shrugged the rucksack off his shoulders and wiped the worst of the snow off it with the discarded towel, then folded the towel and put it on the floor in the corner of the hallway by the door, and put the snowshoes on top of it. Then he stood patiently in the hallway, absorbing what he could of his surroundings. 

There was a partly open door to his left that led into a room that looked like it could be a library or study. Reese could see rich carpeting, a sideboard with bottles and decanters, bookshelves, and the corner of a leather wing chair. His first impulse was take two steps forward, push the door open, and take a good look around, but the sense that he would be taking unfair advantage of an emergency situation stopped him. Finch returned with a large glass of water, and another towel.

"There's a shovel in the vestibule there," Finch said while Reese drank.

"Yeah, I saw it," Reese said, handing the empty glass back.

"Mr. Reese..."

"It's OK, Harold, I understand."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

~~~

An hour later, Reese had cleared a narrow path from Finch's front door to the gate, and also an area around the outside of the gate wide enough to open it, for now. The snow was still coming down thick and fast, and Reese knew he'd probably need to go out and shovel again before nightfall. He also was going to want to find out about the back door - he didn't for a minute believe that Harold would live somewhere with only one exit - and clear that route as well. 

And Harold did live here, he had decided. This was indeed his home and not a safe house or a temporary shelter of some kind. Reese felt distinctly odd about that. Much as he wanted to know more about Finch, and had followed him more than once, hoping to find this very place, now it felt faintly wrong to be here. Following Finch was part of the game they both played by tacit agreement. Finch had, in fact, never asked Reese not to follow him or investigate him; he hadn't encouraged it, of course, but at the very beginning of their relationship Finch had made it clear that he not only accepted it, but expected it of Reese. The cat-and-mouse game was a challenge between them, like a long, on-going game of chess, in which Reese's role was to test Finch's defenses. But now his friend's defenses were down, swept away by the storm, and Reese couldn't bring himself to take advantage of that. It wouldn't be playing fair. So he would not get up in the middle of the night to silently prowl the house, he decided, tempting though it might be. He would leave Finch as much privacy as he could.

He headed up the walk and wasn't surprised to find Finch waiting for him at the door - he'd seen his friend's face at the window through the snow a few times while he worked.

"Here you go," Finch said, handing him a towel as he peeled off his parka. "Do you want some more water?"

"No, that's OK. A shower would be good though," Reese said, hanging the dripping coat on the coat-tree. 

"Of course, please follow me. I took the liberty of putting your bag in the guest room, and it has a full ensuite, you can shower there," Finch said as Reese followed him down the hallway and up the stairs. Finch stopped at the first door and opened it to reveal a large, comfortable-looking bedroom. 

"The bathroom's right there, and there are towels and so on. Please, make yourself at home."

"Thanks Finch, I will," Reese said to Finch's retreating back, and did so by shrugging out of the shoulder holster and dropping it on the bed.

Reese had peeled off his sweater and had his hands on his belt buckle when Finch came back into the room with a laundry basket in his hands.

"Oh, sorry. You can throw your things in here and I'll run them through the wash for you. There are some spare clothes in your size in the bureau."

"Thanks." Reese paused while Finch put the laundry basket down and turned to go. "Harold?"

"Yes, Mr. Reese?"

"Why are there spare clothes in my size in the bureau of your guest room?"

"Because I had decided to bring you here to recuperate next time you get shot."

"Next time... Isn't that a little pessimistic?"

"More like realistic."

"You may have a point." And that was when Reese realized that the need he felt to protect Finch, to keep him safe, went both ways. "That's very thoughtful of you, Harold, thanks." And he gave Harold one of his rare, small, genuine smiles.

"Anyway, lunch will be ready down in the kitchen when you're done. It's nothing fancy I'm afraid, just soup and some sandwiches. I'm afraid I'm not the accomplished cook that you are..." Harold had put the laundry basket down on the bed and was suddenly doing the talking very fast thing he did when he was nervous or something was wrong. He turned to leave the room and stumbled when his bad leg gave out.

Reese put out an arm and caught him before he could fall.

"It's OK, Harold. You're safe. I won't let anything happen, I promise."

"Thank you John, but it's not that."

Reese took his hands off Finch, who had straightened up and was trying to regain some of his dignity. 

"Then what is it?"

"I feel I owe you an apology. I've been meaning to bring you here for some time. Ever since... I meant to invite you over, between numbers, for dinner, or a game of chess, but we've been so busy, and... I just kept putting it off. I don't even know why. You're my friend, I trust you with my life, I shouldn't have waited until now to let you into my home." Reese can see the genuine regret and frustration in his face.

"It's OK. I understand."

"Then would you please explain it to me?"

"It's not about friendship or trust, it's about needing there to be somewhere you feel safe. For people like us who have been on the run for so long, a place that feels safe is more than a home, it's a sanctuary. Letting someone in, even someone you trust completely, violates that. Makes it vulnerable. This is the place where you feel safe - the place you chose to come to last night in the storm, even though you hurt yourself doing it."

"And then when I didn't feel safe here anymore, I called you," said Harold, looking Reese straight in the eye, and thinking what he couldn't say: 'This place is no longer my safety, you are.'

"That's what friends are for, Harold. I'm going to go take that shower now."

~~~

Reese had insisted on cooking dinner, and Finch had given him permission to raid the fridge, freezer, and pantry, which had resulted in the ingredients for a very nice chicken fettuccini alfredo. Finch had produced an excellent Chardonnay to accompany it, and after dinner, he had somewhat shyly proposed 'that game of chess'.

So they sat across each other from a small but exquisitely carved chess board in Finch's study. A gas fire danced softly in the fireplace, and glasses of cognac sat close to hand.

Reese was careful not to let Finch see how intently he was watching him play. "The way a man plays chess tells you almost everything you need to know about him," Reese's own mentor at the game had once told him. "And what tells you the rest?" Reese had asked the grizzled old Iranian warrior, "The way he makes love to a woman," had come the reply.

Finch played conservatively but confidently. He was quick to decide his moves, and careful always to keep track of the whole board. Reese's initial moves were exploratory, wanting to learn as much as he could about the strategies that Finch would choose and how he would react to Reese's advances. Reese took his time deciding each move, sometimes simply to watch Finch watching him. There was something in his friend's eyes that he couldn't quite figure out, and he wasn't sure it had anything to do with the game.

Finch won the first game, and proposed a second one. Reese agreed, and watched as Finch re-set the board.

"Mr. Reese?"

Reese looked up, realizing that he had missed a question.

"I asked if you would you like to play white this time."

"Sorry, Harold. I was just thinking how nice this is, sitting here with my friend, after a good dinner, playing chess, drinking excellent cognac, while the dog snores on the rug and the storm howls outside. It's like having a normal life for a little while."

Harold looked up into the blue eyes and saw the warmth and sincerity behind the words.

Harold's heart said, 'I wish it could last forever.' His mouth said, "For a little while, yes."

"I'll stick with black, thanks."

"I know you like a challenge, Mr. Reese, what do you say to a wager on the result of this game?"

"A bet? You can't mean for money."

"No, of course not. That would be crass, and pointless. No, I had something else in mind. The winner gets to ask the loser one question, about anything. The loser must answer honestly and completely. Are you game?" Finch looked up at him with a small smile, bright eyes twinkling.

Reese hid his surprise at Finch's proposal, and wondered what his motive was. Was there something Finch didn't know about him that wasn't in the files, that he couldn't find out any other way? Or was it some sort of peace offering, a penance for Finch's guilt at failing to invite him over sooner? Whatever it was, it was going to make the next game interesting.

"Sure, why not?"

Reese played carefully and intently. He used everything he had learned about Finch's style of play in the first game, though the man still had a number of tricks up his sleeve. Reese realized that Finch's love of an elegant solution to a problem made him vulnerable to a brute force attack, and used that to his advantage, then pressed that advantage home.

As Finch reached out to tip over his own King in defeat, Reese's hand shot across the board to grab Finch's before he could touch the chess piece.

"Look me in the eye and tell me you didn't let me win."

"John! I swear! I would never insult you like that!"

Reese let go and looked down, "I'm sorry."

"No, no, I deserved that. It's not like I haven't tried to manipulate you in the past - something for which I am profoundly sorry, and I regret more than I can tell you. I swear, John, not now, and never again. You won fairly. Please, ask your question."

"I haven't thought of one yet. Give me a few minutes."

"Take all the time you need. More cognac?"

Reese lifted his glass, and accepted another generous slosh of the amber liquid. He watched as Finch poured himself a much more conservative measure, and then sat back down, watching and waiting.

Reese had not been lying when he said he hadn't thought of a question; he had, in fact, carefully avoided thinking about what he wanted to ask while they were playing, so as to concentrate wholly on the game. Now, he turned over his options in his mind. There were three contenders.

He discarded, "How were you injured?" because he already had a pretty good idea of what the answer to that was, and because although Finch had given him carte blanche, he didn't want to push too far. He seriously considered a question that had been bothering him for some time: if Finch had programmed the machine to give him the "Irrelevant" numbers, why hadn't he programmed in some signal he could send the machine, when he was ready to start, after he had found a partner to work with? Why put himself through the torture of getting numbers he couldn't do anything about? But that was just something that nagged at Reese, not important enough for this... this... what was this? Part peace offering, part plea? A hesitant, tentative lowering of the walls Finch had built around himself for protection? A somewhat clumsy, but very endearing attempt on Finch's to part to let him in?

Reese wanted to believe that. He wanted to be able to trust Finch, not just with his life, as he already did, but completely. And so he chose his question. He looked up at his friend, who was still regarding him steadily from across the chess board, and asked,

"Is Harold your real name?"

Finch blinked, the question obviously not at all what he was expecting, but Reese was waiting for his prize.

"Yes, in that it's the way I think of myself. It is my real middle name. My first name, the one I was born with, is James. I was named for my father, even though I was his third son, not his first. We... didn't get along. My brothers were much older than me. Giving me his name was another extension of the proof of his virility. And because James was his name, I was called 'Jimmy,' and I hated it. I was already smaller, weaker, 'the baby' of the family, and being called by a name that was the diminutive of my father's was... distasteful. I couldn't have been more than five years old the first time I remember thinking to myself, 'I don't want to be Jimmy, I want to be Harold.' I was seven when I made the mistake of saying that out loud to my father. That was the first time he hit me. It wasn't the last. I started using Harold as my name as soon as I could. I would... very much prefer it, Mr. Reese, if you would continue to call me Harold."

"I will, Harold. Thank you."

"Time for bed, I think, we've both had a long day."

Harold paused in the doorway of the study and turned back to Reese who was following him out.

"You don't have to tell me, of course, but of all the things you could have asked me, why that?"

John Reese looked at him for a long moment before deciding to give his own full and honest answer.

"Because the day will come, next week or next month or next year, when I'm a fraction of a second too slow. When there are one too many bad guys, or one too many bullets. When that day comes, and I'm bleeding out in an alley somewhere, with your voice in my ear the last thing I'm ever going to hear, and about 30 seconds left to tell you goodbye, when I say, 'It's been an honour and a privilege knowing you, and working with you. Thank you, Harold, for being the best friend I've ever had.' I'd like to know that the name I'm saying with my last breath is your real one."

John's gaze was steady but his voice cracked on the last few words, and that was what broke Harold's heart. 

"John, I..." but Harold couldn't say anything else past the lump in his throat, couldn't do anything but stare into the deep blue eyes that refused to leave his, couldn't even raise a hand to brush away the tear he could feel rolling down his cheek.

Reese took a step forward and gathered Finch into his arms.

"I'm sorry, Harold," he said, holding his friend tight with one arm around him and the other hand cradling the back of Finch's head. "I didn't mean to upset you. It's just that I've lived too long with the regret of not telling someone how I really felt about them when I had the chance. I don't want to make that mistake again." 

Finch held on tight, found the only words he trusted himself to say:

"I don't want to lose you, John," and he knew Reese would hear the unspoken, 'like I lost Nathan, and Grace.'

"I'll do my very best not to die on you, I promise."

The absurdity of the words, coming from Reese, coupled with the seriousness with which he said them made Finch laugh. He pulled back, out of the embrace, and wiped his eyes with his hand.

"I know." Harold gave one last sniff, and one last wipe at his damp cheek with his palm, "It's been a long day. We should get some sleep."

Reese waited in the hallway as Harold went to double check the locks and alarm on the front door, then followed him up the stairs. Both men stopped at the doorway to the guest room Reese had used earlier.

"There are spare blankets and pillows in the wardrobe; anything else you need, just shout."

"I'll be fine, thanks."

Harold limped the rest of the way down the hallway to his bedroom door, and paused with his hand on the door handle.

"John?"

Reese stuck his head back out of his room.

"If that day does come, and it happens the way you described, the last thing you'll hear," Harold paused, and gathered his courage. "The last thing you'll hear is me saying, 'I love you, John.'"

Reese smiled a small smile. "I know. I love you, too, Harold. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, John."

~~~

They were back in the study. He was saying "Thank you Harold, for being the best friend I've ever had." He was looking into Harold's eyes seeing the tears, but also seeing longing and desire, and John dipped his head to kiss his friend. Gently, at first, but Harold was hungry, passionate, wanting. Then his shirt was off and Harold's hands were on his body, roving across his chest and back and then reaching for his pants, freeing him, touching him, holding him, stroking him.

Reese woke in the middle of an erotic dream with one hand clenched around a throbbing hard-on and the other awkwardly bent under the pillow. The dream was still in front of his eyes, and even though he knew he was awake, he was too far gone to do anything but let himself finish riding the wave. 

He came with a force that left him gasping into the pillow, then lay back with a quiet groan. He lay perfectly still for a few minutes while he got control of his breathing, his dick slowly softening in his hand. He listened carefully for any sounds from the room next door, or the rest of the house. He didn't know if he had made any noise before waking up, but it seemed like he had not disturbed Harold, at least. After a minute, he got out of bed and cleaned himself up. He was happy to see that the sheets had had the worst of it; with only a couple of pairs of sweatpants to wear, he didn't need to be explaining extra laundry to Finch. The sheets would dry.

He climbed quietly back into bed and lay looking at the ceiling. It wasn't the first time he had had a sexual dream about Finch. It was the third - once about a year ago, and then again a few days after he had rescued Finch from Root - the night after they went out for "not a beer". Reese wasn't freaked out, or ashamed, or even overly concerned. He'd had enough psych training to know that guys dreamed about their best friends and their mothers and their teddy bears that way - it was just something that happened. Having the dream didn't bother him. What he felt about having the dream, again, on the other hand...

It felt good. It felt good to think about having Harold in his arms, about caressing him and being caressed by him. He was lonely. He'd been lonely for a long, long time, but he felt it more now, now that he had a job, and a home, and a friend, and a half-share of a dog. And that was part of the problem: in some ways the two of them were already an old married couple. In others they were perfect strangers. Finch already knew him a way no one else possibly could, and Finch loved him - he could replay Finch's voice in his mind: 

"The last thing you'll hear is me saying 'I love you, John'."

Was it just loneliness? Was it just the aching for closeness, for another person's touch, and that Finch was the only person in the world he trusted enough to be vulnerable with? Or was possible that he was starting to fall in love with Harold Finch?

'I need to figure that out, fast,' Reese thought, then rolled over and went back to sleep.

~~~

An alarm was going off. Reese was at Finch's bedroom door with his gun in one hand and a flashlight in the other almost before he knew he was awake. He knocked on the door with the knuckles of the hand holding the gun.

"Finch?"

"I'm OK, Mr. Reese, come in."

Reese came through the door in full tactical mode, swinging the flashlight and gun in parallel check all corners of the room before advancing to stand near Harold's bed, and point the light at the ground by his feet to avoid blinding him.

Harold was climbing out of bed and stuffing his feet into slippers.

Part of Reese's brain noted with surprise that Finch was sleeping in sweat pants and a t-shirt, like he was. He had always thought Finch would be the two-piece pajamas with buttons down the front type, possibly in silk.

"It's the alarm on the generator. The power must be out." 

Reese reached out the hand with the gun in it and flipped a switch on the wall. Nothing happened.

"You're sure it's just the generator?"

"Yes, if it was an intruder it would be a beeping sound, not that god-awful wail."

Finch took a flashlight out of the bedside table drawer and switched it on, then retrieved a set of keys from the top of the bureau.

"We're still going to be careful, just in case. Basement?"

"I have no problem with that at all, Mr. Reese. Yes, the stairs to the basement are at the end of the hallway past the kitchen."

With Reese leading the way, they made their way down to the basement, and down a corridor to be met by a blank steel door. Like the front door, it had two high-end deadbolts and an electronic lock. Reese stood next to Finch as he unlocked the two deadbolts, and then punched in a sequence of numbers.

"6817953, in case you need it later," Finch said, as he moved out of the way to let Reese go through the door first.

Reese flashed the light around the room. It fell on shelves full of canned goods and cases of water, stacks of cardboard boxes and plastic barrels, tools, equipment, and a generator. Finch moved past him to take a large battery-powered lantern off a shelf and switch it on. He set it on the ground by the generator, then reached down to push a button. The noise stopped.

Reese stood alert, watching Finch work. 

"The battery for the electric starter seems to be dead. We'll need to start it manually. Mr. Reese, would you mind?"

"Here, hold these," Reese said, handing his gun and flashlight to Harold, who took them with uncertainty and held them awkwardly and with not a little distaste. Reese grabbed the handle on the generator's starter cord and gave it a solid yank. The engine purred to life, and the lights came on in the room they were standing in.

"The previous owner of this house had the basement converted into a fallout shelter during the Cold War. I just added a few upgrades."

"Nice," said Reese approvingly as he looked around.

"Mr. Reese?" Harold gestured with his hands full for Reese to take back his gun.

"Thanks." 

Finch picked up the lantern, and grabbed a box of candles off a shelf. He looked around the room, then said,

"Everything looks OK here; I guess we can go back upstairs."

The house was dark and quiet and when Finch reached up a hand to turn on a light switch, Reese stopped him.

"Let's find out what the situation is, first."

By the light of the electric lantern, Finch set up his laptop on the kitchen table. He called up CNN's website to find that New York City and half the Eastern seaboard were without power, and that the storm was still dropping so much heavy, wet snow on the area that emergency crews were getting marooned as they tried to rescue people.

"Well, I guess we're going to be stuck here for a while."

"I guess so."

"Are you going to be OK, Harold?"

"Yes, yes, fine. We've got plenty of food and water, enough gas to run the generator for at least two weeks... I was just thinking that with the power out, The Machine is deaf and blind, in New York, at least. There won't be any new numbers for a while."

"Does this mean we're on vacation?"

"I guess you could call it that."

"Gee, and here I was hoping for the French Riviera."

"We may as well go back to bed and try to get a little more sleep."

"You go ahead, Harold. I'll stay here for a bit."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"The house is perfectly secure, Mr. Reese."

"I'm sure it is Harold, I don't doubt you."

"But under the circumstances, with an... unknown threat level outside, you won't be able to sleep unless you've checked every lock yourself, is that it?"

John didn't answer; instead he just gave Harold that look and little tilt of the head that meant, 'Yes, obviously.'

"Well, come on, then."

"Come on where?"

"To check every lock yourself, do you want to start upstairs or in the basement?"

"I'm not making you show me every corner of your house, Harold."

"No Mr. Reese, you're not making me do anything. I'm offering to show you every corner of my house because I want you to get some sleep."

"That isn't necessary."

"Oh, and it's necessary for you to sit up all night, guarding against whatever might be coming at us through this storm, instead?"

"I'm only here because of the storm in the first place. I don't want you to be forced into doing something you wouldn't otherwise do just because of bad weather. I want you to let me into your life because you want to, Harold, not because you have to!" Reese was agitated enough to raise his voice a little, and to give away a little more than he meant to.

'Great, we haven't even slept together yet, and we're having our first relationship argument' thought John Reese, and then, 'Where the hell did THAT just come from?'

"I want to let you into my life, John - I'm trying to let you into my life! I just don't know how to - I've never done it before!" Finch shouted back.

"Never? But what about Grace, and Nathan?"

"In many ways you already know me far better than either of them ever did." Finch sounded sad and defeated. He sat back down at the table opposite Reese and looked down at his hands.

"When I met Nathan, I was already... living in hiding. He thought my secrecy was an intriguing and amusing personality quirk, at first, then he just accepted it as part of who I was. He stopped asking questions that he knew I wouldn't answer. It was just the way it was between us. And hiding parts of myself was the way I lived. For years and years." 

"With Grace, at first I was afraid of losing her, afraid that she would run away from me if she knew too much about who I really was. I kept so many secrets from her. She never knew what I did, or how much money I had. When I was finally confident enough in our relationship to start letting her in, I was almost finished building The Machine, and so I told myself that when it was all over, once it was finished and we had delivered The Machine to the government, then I would explain it to her - not any of the details of course, but enough about me and my past that at least I wouldn't be lying to her any more. And then... well... you know what happened after that." 

"You're not the only one who is trying to avoid repeating old mistakes, Mr. Reese. And besides, there's another very good reason for me to show you every corner of this house."

"Oh, what's that?"

"After the way you beat me at chess earlier this evening, I'm quite confident that if there are any flaws in my security system, you'll spot them. Come on."


	3. Day 3

Reese woke to a quiet knock on his door. His eyes snapped open and he located his gun on the bedside table before he remembered where he was. Then he relaxed.

"Yeah?"

"Good morning, Mr. Reese," Finch called through the door. "I'm heading downstairs to do my physio in the gym; you're welcome to join me if you like. If not, there's coffee fixings in the kitchen."

"Thanks, Finch."

'Inviting me to work out with him. Well, I guess that's one way to start letting me into his life. Not exactly what I expected.' 

Reese got up, stretched, and then headed down to the home gym Harold had shown him the night before.

Harold was on his back on a leg press bench, working hard to move a fifty-pound plate, his face pink and a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. Reese realized he was staring at the incongruous scene in front of him and turned to survey the room instead. It was a basic, but complete home gym setup that included weight machines, a treadmill, an elliptical machine, a bench-press bench, and a rack of free weights.

"Do you use all of this?" Reese asked, doubtful that Harold would be able to manage the larger of the free weights or the bench press.

"God no! Nine....Ten." Harold finished his set and lay gasping for a minute, then looked over at Reese. "I moved here shortly after I was released from hospital, so I just ordered 'Home Gym Number 4' from a catalogue. At the time I had no idea what I would eventually be able to use, so it was just easiest. I've never used the bench press, and my bad leg doesn't like the elliptical, but I've logged over five hundred miles on that treadmill, and this particular machine and I are old and dear enemies. Anyway, help yourself - I've got two more sets to do here."

"Don't let me distract you from your workout."

"You won't." 

There was something slightly odd in Harold's tone, and Reese gave him a glance, but he was starting his next set, so Reese sat down on the seat of a lat pull-down machine, set the weight at 120 pounds and gave it an experimental pull. On the occasion that he felt the need to exercise, he generally put himself through a standard military callisthenic routine of push-ups, crunches and squats. He couldn't remember the last time he'd worked out in a gym.

'Hmm. I guess I'm in better shape that I thought. Must be all that punching bad guys I've been doing lately.'

He re-set the machine for 150 pounds, and started to do sets of twelve reps. The first set went smoothly, though he was breathing heavily by the end of it. The second set was more work and he broke a sweat on the fifth rep, and could feel the burn starting to set in by the tenth. 

Taking a break and stretching his neck and swinging his arms, he caught Finch covertly glancing at him.

'Maybe he likes what he sees? Or maybe I'm just damned over-sensitive because of that dream I had.' 

Reese did his third set and it was hard work: he was sweating freely and blowing his breath out with each pull half-way through, and the last two reps came with loud grunts.

Releasing the handle of the machine, he sagged on the seat and sucked in air for a minute before getting up to stretch his over-worked muscles.

Harold had finished his leg-presses and was sitting on a bench curling a 25-pound dumbbell in one hand. Reese watched the man's small bicep bulge with each rep and smiled. Harold caught him looking, and he spoke quickly but gently, not wanting his friend to think he was laughing at him,

"You've got some really nice tone there."

Finch gave him a very small pleased smile, then looked away, embarrassed.

"Nothing compared to you, of course. I used to just do a basic physio routine every morning, to keep from stiffening up, but when it became clear that I was going to be working with you in the field regularly, I added a few more exercises, thinking that perhaps I could eventually become less of a liability."

"You've never been a liability, Harold."

"Yes, well, our recent experience says otherwise. I suppose I should have asked for your advice on a training program."

"Looks like you're doing just fine on your own." To give himself something to do, Reese climbed onto an inclined bench and started doing crunches. "Though I still think it would be a good idea for me to teach you some basic self-defense." Reese was speaking easily as he effortlessly curled his body upwards over and over again in a steady rhythm. "You could move that elliptical machine out of the way and put in a couple of mats."

"Mats?"

"The first lesson is always learning how to fall without hurting yourself." Reese uncrossed his arms from where they were folded across his chest and laced his fingers behind his head instead, then started to add a twist to the crunches, first to the right then to the left, so that he was facing Finch on every second crunch.

"Well, I can see the logic in that, at least. I'll think about it, Mr. Reese, and I may well take you up on that offer."

"Anytime, Finch, anytime."

And Reese suddenly realized that they were flirting with each other. Not in any conventional sense, of course, but by inviting him down here this morning, Finch had offered a tiny bit of his privacy, of himself. And Reese admitted to himself that he was actually showing off a little bit, and hoping that Finch liked what he saw. 

'Now all we need is some cheesy music and a sauna, and this would make a great porno film,' Reese thought. 'I've got to get things sorted out in my head before I'm ready for the sauna scene though.'

Finch had finished his curls and was picking up a towel, so Reese quit doing crunches and swung himself up off the bench.

"How much can you bench press, Mr. Reese?" Finch asked suddenly.

"I have no idea. It's been years since I did any serious weightlifting."

"Oh, when was that?" 

"Iraq, when my unit was in Tikrit. We had a pretty good weight room set up in the Rec Center and it was something to do between patrols."

"Want to give it a go? I know how to spot."

'OK, this is starting to get a little weird,' Reese thought. 'But what the hell.'

"Sure, why not?"

Reese loaded a couple of 50 pound plates onto either end of the bar and lay back on the bench.

Harold put his hands under the bar in perfect spotting form, though Reese knew that Finch wouldn't be able to actually do much if he dropped the weight. He was pretty sure Finch knew it too.

John gripped the bar, blew out his breath a couple of times, and lifted it off the rests. He lowered it to his chest and pushed back up in one smooth motion.

"You made that look easy."

"It was."

"Shall I put another couple of plates on then? Ten pounds? Twenty?"

Reese smiled a very small smile, wondering if Harold knew that he was humoring him, and said, "Put another ten pounds on each side."

Harold did, wearing a small pleased grin. Once he had the new plates secured, Reese gripped the bar again and lifted it. Finch put his palms under the bar again and followed it down. Reese blew out a breath, then heaved. The weight rose slowly, and a little less smoothly than last time, but he pushed it up until his arms were fully extended and then dropped the bar onto its rests.

"Well done Mr. Reese! I knew you could do it." Finch grinned at him, and then looked away embarrassed.

"I guess I'll go start breakfast," he said, heading for the door. "Do you want to shower first?" 

"Actually, I was planning to go out and do some more shoveling first, to keep the front walkway clear. Bear is going to need to go out, too, so I'll take him with me."

"Of course. In that case, I'll just make coffee and wait for you to come back in."

"You don't have to do that, Finch."

"No trouble," Harold called back over his shoulder as he headed up the stairs.

~~~

Sifting through large amounts of data, deciding what was relevant and important, deciding on a course of action, planning a strategy and reviewing the plan for flaws or defects, and then putting the plan into action - these were all things that John Reese was very, very good at. He'd just never done it before when the data was his own feelings and emotions, and the decision so personal. As he shoveled the front walk, pausing every so often to throw snowballs into the air for Bear, he started to break it down in his mind:

_Question: Do I want to have sex with Harold? Not the right question. Not the big picture._

_Question: Is Harold actually attracted to me, or am I just imagining things? Not enough data, cannot be answered reliably, and besides, it's still not the real question. Not the big picture._

_Question: Am I in love with Harold? Pause. Evaluate. Right question. Answer? I love him. But am I in love with him?_

_Data: He saved my life. More than once. That's gratitude, not love. He gave me a job, a purpose. Again, gratitude. I want to protect him. That's friendship. Being with him makes me happy - he makes me happy. Aha. I want to make him happy. Aha again._

Reese thought about how he felt when he walked into the Library in the morning, carrying his coffee and Finch's tea, and a box of donuts for the three of them. How he'd sometimes stop silently, and just watch Finch's face as he stared at the computer screen and typed. 

'Yeah, I'm in love with him all right. Have been for a while, I guess. I just didn't realize it because I didn't think it was possible that I'd ever feel that way again.'

_Risk assessment._

_Risk: Having an emotional attachment to Harold could compromise the effectiveness of our work._

Reese nearly laughed out loud at himself as he remembered a parking garage, a train station, a rooftop. It seemed impossible to get any more emotionally attached to Harold Finch than he already was - both of them would risk everything for the other they already had, more than once - their effectiveness was already compromised, as if that made any difference to anything.

_Risk: If I'm wrong about this - if Harold doesn't feel the same way, then I risk screwing up our friendship. I can minimize that risk by being as sure as possible before I make a move, and also by giving Harold a very easy out when I do. When I do... what, exactly? The situation is fluid; advance planning might not be possible, I'll just need to be prepared to take whatever opportunity arises._

_Question: What do I want from him? Answer: As much as he's willing to give me._

_Question: Including sex? Answer: More research required._

Reese had run out of walk to shovel, and his shoulders ached pleasantly from the hour of exercise. He needed a hot shower... or possibly a cold one.

~~~

Reese stripped out of his clothes in Finch's guest bedroom and walked naked into the ensuite bathroom. He closed the door and turned the lock. 'Just in case,' he thought, not that he expected Finch to disturb him while he was showering. Reese adjusted the water temperature, very grateful that Finch's emergency generator was up to the task of running the water heater, and stepped under the spray. He held his head under for a long time, leaning against the back wall of the shower and trying to decide... He picked up the soap, lathered quickly and thoroughly, running his hands over his own body and letting his mind drift back to the dream he had had last night. 

He thought about Finch touching him. Running his long, thin fingers along the line of his jaw, down his chest, up his thighs. The images weren't doing a whole lot for him, and he began to wonder if he had been wrong, if he wasn't physically attracted to Harold after all, if what he was feeling was just an over-reaction to friendship and gratitude. He kept his eyes closed, and an image of Finch's face swam into focus. Not the face he was used to seeing, framed by his glasses and shirt collar and knotted tie, but a more intimate face, without glasses, big blue eyes looking into his, open, vulnerable, needy. 

In his mind, Reese moved closer, cupped a cheek in one hand and touched his lips to Harold's. In his mind, Harold's lips were pliant, open, responsive and wanting. Reese imagined the taste of Harold's mouth and the feel of his tongue slipping over and around his own. He imagined moving his hand back to cradle to back of Harold's head, and sliding the other hand around the fragile body, drawing to him. 

Imagining holding Harold in his arms and kissing him, Reese started to get hard. In his mind, he heard the small sounds Harold would make as he ran his hands down the thin, bare back. As he cupped the small, round buttocks and squeezed. As he swiped his tongue across a taut pink nipple. In his mind, Harold reached for his chin, lifting his head and claiming his lips again, leaning into Reese's body and into the hot, wet kiss, giving John everything. 

Then as the fantasy unfurled, Harold moved a step back and started to go down on his knees. John reached out to stop him, 'No.' In the shower stall, John mouthed the word silently. In his fantasy Harold answered, 'Let me, please. I want to.' Reese watched as Harold knelt awkwardly before him, and then reverently rubbed his face into John's damp pubic hair, nuzzling a hard cock and taut balls with his nose. He reached down and gently stroked the side of Harold's face, and Harold leaned into the touch for a moment before swiping John's cock with his tongue. 

Reese took himself in a soap-slicked hand and imagined watching Harold sucking him as he stroked himself, gently at first and then fast and furious as the images in his mind fueled his need. In his mind, Harold looked up and met John's eyes. John came. 

So. Thinking about sticking his tongue down Harold's throat was enough to get him rock hard, and the image of Harold sucking him got him off like a rocket - just reviewing these in his head made his groin ache all over again. That was a big checkmark next to the question of physical attraction.

'I love him as a dear friend. I know he loves me the same way. I trust him with my life. And apparently, I want him. I think he wants me, too. So how, exactly, do we do this?'

~~~

It was mid-afternoon. Finch was online using his laptop computer and a cell phone connection, tracking the progress of the storm. Reese had spent a couple of hours cleaning and oiling the two guns he had brought with him, and was thinking about what to make for supper when the doorbell rang. Reese picked his handgun up off the table and threw a dishtowel over the rifle. He took up a position just inside the kitchen where he could see down the hallway to the front door. Bear was already pounding down the hallway, and Reese nodded to Finch.

Finch squared his shoulders and limped down the hall. He put a hand on Bear's collar, and opened the door to reveal a man and a woman in US Army combat fatigues standing on the doorstep. 

"Good afternoon, Sir. We're going door to door to offer to transport people to the emergency shelters that have been set up for the duration of the power outages due to the storm.

"I see, well, er... I won't be needed to go to a shelter, I'm perfectly fine here."

"Are you sure, sir? The power outage could last for up to a week, which means you would need to have supplies for..."

Reese came up behind Finch, a dishtowel thrown over one shoulder in a picture of domestic bliss. Reese watched the Sergeant threat assess him as he walked up the hallway behind Finch, and as he got to the door, he gave the Sergeant his very best heavy-lidded 'Don't Fuck With Me' stare. The Sergeant, to his credit, managed to keep control of his sphincters, 'Must have some combat experience,' thought Reese. Reese put one hand up high on the doorframe, and then leaned against it with his elbow, giving the Sergeant an excellent view of his bicep, and incidentally positioning his armpit about three inches from Harold's nose. He stepped up right behind Harold, until his chest was just barely touching the back of Harold's shoulder.

"We're fine here, Sergeant," said Reese, and noted the soldier's eyes widening a little with surprise. But he was paying more attention to Harold's response to the intrusion on his personal space. At first, his body stiffened just a little, but then relaxed almost immediately, and after Reese spoke, Harold let himself lean back the tiniest bit, increasing the physical contact between them. Reese leaned forward a little himself, in return, and then concentrated on the Sergeant to keep himself from losing himself in the feeling of Harold almost, but not quite, leaning into him. 

"I'll say," muttered the young female Corporal, who was standing behind the Sergeant in a tone of admiration.

"That will be all, Corporal," said the Sergeant, then,

"I'm sorry, sir, sirs, we just need to check that everyone's OK, and make sure that they know about the shelters. Here's an information sheet with emergency numbers to call, but please use them only if you have to, resources are stretched to the limits. Oh, and the information about the curfew is there, too."

"We'll be sure to abide by the curfew, thank you Sergeant," said Finch. 

"Right, well, have a good day sir, sirs," said the Sergeant, as he turned to head off the step but found his way blocked by the Corporal, who was still staring at Reese in wide-eyed admiration.

"Corporal!"

"Yes Sarge, sorry Sarge," she said as they both headed up the walk.

Reese couldn't help grinning widely as they both moved out of the doorway so that Finch could close and re-lock the door.

"Was that absolutely necessary?" Finch asked, his tone annoyed.

"Was what necessary, Finch?" said Reese, playing innocent to see where this was going.

"You know what I'm talking about, Mr. Reese."

"I made the Sergeant mildly uncomfortable, which makes him much more likely to leave us alone."

"What makes you so sure of that?"

"Simple psychology, Finch - if he pays too much attention to us because he thinks we are a gay couple, he's a homophobe, which makes him a bad person. So instead he pays less attention to us that he does to the couple next door, absolving himself of guilt."

"Well, I hope you're right."

"I am."

~~~

After they had eaten another excellent meal prepared by Reese and washed the dishes standing companionably next to each other at the kitchen sink, Finch proposed another game of chess.

"Same stakes as last night?" Reese asked.

Harold paused for a second before answering, and Reese said, "We don't have to, Finch, if you - "

"No... certainly, if you'd like, we'll play for the same stakes again. It will just give me more incentive to win this time."

And win he did. Reese played as well as he could, but was a tiny bit distracted by watching Finch's slim fingers on the wood of the chess pieces as he made each move, and it affected his concentration. 

"I believe this means you get to ask me a question, Finch."

Harold nodded, and then looked down at his lap for a minute. Reese couldn't tell if he was thinking or gathering his courage. Finch's head came back up and there was something Reese didn't recognize in his eyes.

"When you were working for the CIA, what was the worst thing they ordered you to do?"

"You've read my file. You already know everything they had me do."

"Yes. I've read your files, all of them. I know the tactical details of your missions. I know what looks horrible in black and white on paper. What I don't know is what haunts you. What it is you hate yourself for."

"And that's what you want to know?"

"Yes."

Reese got angry. Who did Finch think he was to ask this of him? Poking into the parts of Reese that he couldn't access from the files. Paying amateur psychologist now, was he? Probably thought it was for Reese's own good, that he was helping, somehow. Reese sighed inwardly. 'That's probably exactly what he thinks he's doing. Well, he's in over his head this time.'

Keeping his gaze perfectly steady on Harold, Reese began to talk in a flat voice, narrating the scenes that played in his nightmares. Reese described the village, the crumbling houses, the dilapidated mosque. He described the taste of the desert dust in his mouth, the feel of the wind-whipped sand on his face. He described the search, the shoves, the blows. He described the crippled old men and the cowering women. The shouted questions, the frantic, sobbing answers. He described the boys. 

There were no tears. Reese had cried himself dry years ago. There was nothing left but the tired monotone. He described what they did to the few who dared to fight back. He described the bullets tearing apart the small broken bodies. The blood. The screams. The fire. The stench.

"Man's inhumanity to man is acceptable, somehow, in war. What truly brands us as monsters is what we are willing to do to the children." And Reese's voice broke on that final word. 

Harold sat listening, his eyes never leaving Reese's, his mouth set in a thin hard line. Harold didn't speak or move after Reese had finished his narrative. He didn't speak or move for many minutes, then slowly got up out of his chair. Reese half expected him to walk out of the room, and he could have dealt with that. What he couldn't have dealt with was any gesture of support or compassion from Finch. As Finch stood, and took a step towards him, Reese screamed in his mind.

'Don't touch me. Whatever you do don't touch me. I can't do this. I can't accept your forgiveness, your absolution, your comfort - whatever you'll try to give me. Not now. Not yet. Not for this. Just don't. Please, please, don't.'

Finch turned and went to the sideboard and poured himself another drink. He brought the bottle over and put it down next to Reese's glass on the side table by his chair. Then he sat back down in silence in the chair opposite. 

Reese's panic passed. His breathing slowed. He regained control of himself.

Finch spoke.

"You're a good man, John."

"How can you say that?" Reese asked bitterly.

"Because if you weren't, it wouldn't hurt so much."

Reese sat, absorbing Finch's words. He had never thought of it in those terms, but of course it was true. If he had truly become the monster he sometimes believes himself to be, then he wouldn't feel this pain.

"One more game?" Finch asked.

Reese thought about it, and considered declining, but didn't want to go to bed on the thoughts he was currently having. Concentrating on a game of chess would give his mind a chance to clear, to come back from the dark place.

"Why not. Same stakes?"

"If you like."

"Yes." Reese planned to win this one. And he did.

Reese sat for a long time, sipping his cognac occasionally, pretending to be deciding on the question he wanted Finch to answer. He already had his question, he had had it since this morning in the shower; he was just waiting for the tactically optimal moment to ask it. His anger at Finch had passed completely during the first few moves of the chess game. 

After five more minutes of sitting in silence, Finch got uncharacteristically antsy and stood up.

"I hope you don't mind, Mr. Reese, I'm just going to stretch my legs while you think."

"No problem, Finch, go right ahead."

He waited while Finch poured himself a little more cognac, and offered him another slug, which he declined. He noted that Finch had had more to drink this evening that he had the previous one - more, in fact, that Reese had ever seen him drink before, which, to be fair, wasn't saying all that much. He waited while Finch took a small sip and then put the glass down on a side table. He waited while Finch went to stand near the window and stare out at the snow, falling more gently now, but still falling. Reese watched and waited until he saw Finch's body relax slightly, and then he got silently up from his chair, and went over to stand behind Finch without making a sound. 

"So, have you thought of your question yet, Mr. Reese?" Finch asked, turning, and starting and stepping back when he found Reese standing right behind him. 

Reese waited a beat before answering, 

"Yes."

"Well, what is it?"

Reese didn't speak; instead he put his arms up and planted both hands on the window frame, one on either side of Finch's head, trapping his friend between his outstretched arms with the window at his back. Reese took a half-step closer, leaving just a couple of inches of space between their bodies, close enough to make very sure that Finch was acutely aware of him. 

He looked into Finch's eyes and saw a mixture of nervousness and hope. He held the pose for a second more and then asked, his voice low and steady,

"What do you want from me, Harold?"

Harold Finch gave him a complete and honest answer in a single word:

"Everything." 

Reese wondered what Finch was seeing in his own eyes, and hoped that it was the trust, and love, and need that he was feeling. Leaning forward slowly, he lowered his head and gently touched Harold's lips with his own. 

It was soft and sweet and oh, so very good. Harold kissed him back, just as gently, barely moving, not daring to breathe. John kissed him again, again very lightly, a brush of lips against his own. 

John's heart was pounding but he still didn't do anything more than kiss Harold softly and gently, wanting - needing - slow and sweet and sensual. He would let Harold lead, let Harold guide them through this new territory. He felt Harold's lips part slightly and trap his bottom lip for an instant, holding him, silently asking him for more. He parted his own lips just a little, kissing with a fraction more pressure, each touch lasting a little longer. 

Harold had always known, somehow, that when - if - this moment ever came, that John would be this gentle, this caring, but the reality of it was far better than anything he had ever been able to imagine. Harold brought up his right hand and rested it lightly on John's side, just above his hip. 

John took that as a cue to wrap his arms around Harold, one across his back and the other cradling the back of his head, the same position that John had used to comfort him the night before. The kisses they exchanged were still gentle, each carefully exploring the other, reveling in the sensation. 

Harold could feel John's heart beating fast and hard against his chest, and that physiological proof that John wanted this was much as he did made his head spin. He put his other arm around John, resting his hand at the small of his back, and pulled him closer, wanting more contact. Their bodies were touching from chest to knee, and Harold relished it, in holding and being held, being gently held in John's strong arms.

The first, tentative touch of the tip of Harold's tongue to his lips sent a shiver down John's spine that settled in his groin. He parted lips and teeth and tasted cognac and the sweet new taste that was Harold. His arousal was a warm slow burn without urgency. Harold's left hand was rubbing long slow strokes up and down his spine from waistband to hairline and back again. On the next stroke the hem of John's t-shirt rode up, and Harold's fingers met the skin at the small of his back. Reese moaned softly, deep in his chest. 

The sound went straight to Harold's groin. The slow, gentle caresses, the deep exploring kisses had been wonderful, but now Harold was starting to feel raw desire. He slipped his hand under the shirt and trailed light fingers up John's spine. John moaned again and the sound of John moaning with pleasure, pleasure that he was causing, was one of the most exciting, erotic things Harold had ever heard. Harold tugged at the t-shirt to free it from the waistband of John's pants, and slid both of his arms under it, up the broad muscular back.

John moved his lips away from Harold's mouth to caress his jaw and trail towards his ear. 

"If you're going to undress me, Harold," he said softly, "maybe we should move upstairs."

Harold pulled back a little to see John smiling into his eyes. For a minute he just looked back at the warm, open smile, drinking in the sight of John relaxed and happy and, he realized with a jolt, in love. With him. The idea of crashing to the study floor in a tangle of limbs and discarded clothes had a certain appeal, but the thought of John Reese stretched out naked in his bed - that made him catch his breath and his dick gave a strong twitch of agreement.

Pressed up against each other as they were, John felt the movement at Finch's groin and cocked an eyebrow at him. 

"That was an image of you naked in my bed, so yes. Upstairs."

Reese claimed one more kiss as Harold slid his arms down and stepped back out of the embrace. They looked at each other for a moment. 'I can't quite believe this is actually happening, can you?' seemed to be what both small smiles said. 

"You go ahead...I'll lock up," Reese said, having a little trouble keeping his voice steady.

Harold gave one of his small nods, picked up the electric lantern they had been using for light, and headed for the stairs.

John made quick, but careful and thorough work of blowing out the candles that they had lit in the study and checking that the front door was properly locked. He was on the stairs before Harold had gotten to the top, and followed quickly behind, but then paused at his own room. 

Harold heard him stop, and turned. 

"Go ahead," he said with a note of resignation. 

"You don't mind?"

"I do, but I know you'll be more comfortable, and I want... I don't want there to be any distractions."

"Thanks." Reese retrieved his handgun from the bedside table where he had left it after the afternoon's visit from the New York National Guard, and followed Finch to his bedroom door, where Bear sat, panting and looking expectantly up at them.

"Sorry buddy, not this time," Reese said, and then gave him the "Guard" command in Dutch. Bear flopped down outside the door and Harold and John went in and closed it behind them.

Reese crossed over to the bedside table and put his gun down, then pulled his Zippo out of his pocket to light the candles that Finch had set there earlier.

"Now then, where were we?" Harold asked when John turned around, as he reached for the hem of his t-shirt.

"Here, let me." Reese pulled his shirt over his head with a smooth motion and dropped it to the floor beside him.

Harold made a small noise of appreciation.

"It's nothing you haven't seen before," Reese said, a little embarrassed at the frankly appraising look Harold was giving him, and taking refuge in his usual dismissive tone.

"Yes," Harold said, stepping closer. "But this time I get to touch." Harold laid both hands on Reese's wide, solid chest, then splayed his fingers and ran them slowly down over broad pecs and tight abs. 

Reese closed his eyes and gave in to the sensation. 'This. This is what I wanted. This is what I needed. This is what I knew I could have with him.' Finch's feather light touches made him ache with desire, but it was a wonderful, welcome ache, knowing that for once, for tonight at least, there was time to go slow, time to explore, time to discover and relax and enjoy. Reese felt Harold move closer, and lips joined fingertips in the dance across his skin.

Harold dropped a light kiss at the base of Reese's throat and then trailed his lips across his collarbone and back again. A roving fingertip brushed a sensitive nipple and John gasped. Harold smiled, and headed for the other nipple with lips and tongue. 

"Oh, God. Harold. God." Reese was profoundly glad that self-control had always been one of his strong points, because it was taking just about all of his to stand there and let Harold do these things to him. 

Harold didn't completely understand why John was letting him, but knew his friend well enough to know that this was the way John wanted it - for now, anyway. Harold was quite sure John wasn't going to stay passive for very long, but while it lasted, he was determined to make the most of it. Harold dropped his hands to the button of John's pants, and then had a thought, and stopped dead.

"What's wrong?" Reese asked almost immediately.

"I didn't plan this."

"I know - it just... happened."

"That's not what I mean, I didn't plan this, and so I've just realized that there's a significant gap in our supplies."

Reese figured out what Finch was saying, and pulled a short strip of foil packets out of his back pocket, then dropped them on the bedside table. "When I got my gun," he said, "just in case..." he trailed off as he saw Harold's expression darken, and then look away from him for a moment, and then back. 

"I have no right to ask..."

"Since we've known each other, Zoe Morgan. Twice. No one else."

"I... like I said, I have no right..."

"You have every right. From now on you have the right to ask anything you want to or need to know. I can't promise that I'll always be able to answer you."

"Thank you John."

"You're welcome. Harold?"

"Yes?"

"There is something I need to ask you."

"Go ahead."

"Have you done this before?"

"I take it you mean with a male partner. Yes. It was a long time ago, but yes, I've done this before."

"Experimenting in college?" guessed Reese.

"You could call it that, I suppose. It didn't take me very long to determine that it was what was in a person's mind and heart that mattered to me, rather than their anatomy."

Reese grinned widely at the fact that both the phrasing and the sentiment were so very Finch-like.

"You?"

"What?"

"Have you done this before?"

"You mean you don't know?" Reese purposely used the same tone he would have used if they were standing in the library, and Finch had asked some detail about his background that was sure to be in some file that he very well knew Finch had hacked, and read.

"While your psycho-sexual profile indicates you are not adverse to the possibility of engaging in homosexual behavior, neither your military record nor your CIA file list any specific same-sex liaisons. So no, I do not know if you have previously explored that aspect of your sexuality."

"Well, I wouldn't call them explorations. More like commando raids. But yes, I've done this before."

"Good, now that we've determined that neither of us are virgins, could we please go back to getting you naked in my bed?"

Reese laughed out loud, then he put his arms around Finch and hugged him close. 

"God, I love you, Harold!"

Since John had Harold in his arms, he decided to kiss him for a while, and did. Then he backed off. He put his hands to the top button on Harold's shirt.

"May I?"

"Yes." Harold dropped his arms and undid the buttons on his cuffs while John undid the shirt buttons and eased the shirt off his shoulders. Reese lay one hand on Harold's cheek and touched the frame of his glasses with a finger. 

"Can you see well enough to be comfortable without them?"

"Yes."

"May I?"

"Yes." 

Reese gently took Harold's glasses from his face, folded them, and put them on the bedside table next to his gun. He looked at the table for a second, wondering how many times he would see that particular juxtaposition, Harold's glasses next to his gun, and his own words from the night before echoed in his ears, 'The day will come, next week or next month or next year, when I'm a fraction of a second too slow...' He turned back to Harold. 

"Come here."

He gathered Harold into his arms and held him tightly, wanting to capture the moment, willing himself to forget, just for a few minutes, everything in the world except for the feel of Harold's skin against his own, the smell of Harold's hair in his nose, the beat of Harold's heart against his chest. 

"I love you too, John," Harold whispered, and Reese kissed the top of his head, then his neck, then his cheek, then his mouth. This time, there was less gentleness, and more passion. 

Reese was letting his hands roam across Harold's back when he felt the slight wince. He remembered how badly Harold had been limping yesterday, and cursed himself for not realizing sooner that standing on his bad leg was probably hurting him like hell right now. Reese gently pivoted them and guided them towards the bed. When the backs of Harold's legs were touching the mattress, Reese broke off the kiss and put his hands on Harold's shoulders, urging him to sit. 

"Get comfortable," Reese said, then walked around to the other side of the bed, and lit the candles that were on the nightstand there. He climbed onto the bed and moved over to sit by Harold, who was lying on his back, looking up at him. Reese didn't move.

"What is it?"

"I'm afraid of hurting you."

"I'm not going to break."

"I know. But you're in pain."

"As a general rule, yes. Let me tell you, if I was in a little less pain right now I'd be climbing all over you, believe me. I'll be fine, John."

"If you told me exactly where it hurts, it would bother me less."

"Why don't I just show you, instead?" said Finch, his hands reaching for his trouser button.

"OK. And I'll just..." Reese rolled onto his back and quickly shucked off his own pants and underwear, then rolled back onto his side to see Finch struggling a little to kick his pants off his ankles. Reese reached down to help and dropped the clothing off the side of the bed, then turned back to look.

"I know it's not very pretty to look at." Harold said, quietly.

John laid his hand gently on the mangled leg. There was a rough, scarred cavity the size of a baseball in the thigh muscle, and a network of scars from hip to knee, the evidence of long rough gashes intersected by neat surgical lines. 

"How did you survive?"

"I don't know. Neither do the doctors who put me back together. That gouge is from a piece of two-by-four. It took the surgeon four hours to pick out all the splinters. I should have died of blood loss, or ended up paralyzed - two shattered vertebrae, by the way, resulting in a c3 to c5 spinal fusion, which I'm sure you figured out from the way I move - or rather - the way I don't." Harold sighed and continued the litany, "My pelvis was crushed on that side. There's a plate in the hip socket and the head of the femur is steel and Teflon. My femur was broken in two places, I was in traction for a month. My knee is half plastic. The tibia and fibula got off lightly, only one break each, but the ankle and foot were crushed. They are a mass of wires and pins. I have very limited mobility of the ankle joint, which is in large part what causes the limp. I don't have any feeling in the heel of my foot, but the toes do move. Sort of."

John looked down at the mass of discolored scar tissue that covered Harold's foot to see him wiggling his toes slowly.

"The hip and the ankle are the worst. The hip aches when I've stressed it by walking to much or too fast, and the ankle is always... uncomfortable."

"Ankles are a bitch."

"Indeed. Look, now that I finally have you naked in my bed, could we please stop discussing my medical history and..." Harold paused as John moved in closer, supporting himself on one strong arm and looking down at him with a smile.

"And what, Harold?" John asked, his eyes twinkling and he trailed his fingers lightly up Harold's rapidly stiffening cock.

"Make love to me, John."

John looked down into Harold's eyes and saw a reflection of the love and trust and need that he himself felt. He dipped his head to kiss Harold softly on the lips, and watched Harold's eyes slide closed. John slid his fingertips up Harold's chest and both felt and heard the sigh of contentment. Happy for the moment just to be looking down at Harold's peacefully relaxed face and gently stroking his skin, John let himself explore and enjoy.

Powerful fingers that had taken life by crushing tissue now danced across sensitive nipples. Strong hands that had been bathed in spurts of warm blood now gently caressed, giving only pleasure. A man who had terrorized, tortured, killed, now cared, needed, loved. A heart that been shattered found the strength to start to heal.

John dipped his head to Harold's chest and planted tiny light kisses where his fingers had already blazed tingling trails.

"This is how I will know you, Harold," John whispered as his lips trailed across Harold's shoulder. "I will learn every inch of your skin, every spot that makes you shiver and tremble." John kissed along his jaw, gently nibbled an earlobe, continuing to explore with deft, sure fingers. "I will find all the special places that make you sigh and moan. I will follow each scar as a map to your secrets."

The sensuality of the whispered words went through Harold like fire. "John," he whispered, reaching for the man above him and pulling him down, needing skin on skin, needing to feel, to rub, to hold, to thrust. John carefully gave him the contact he craved, but kept most of his weight on his knees and elbows. This would have bothered Harold if he didn't know that John was doing it unconsciously, without thought. 

Harold ran his hands across every inch of John's skin that he could reach, stroking and kneading and rubbing, fingers tracing old scars and new ones, searching for the places that made John respond with his own gasps and moans. Eventually he slid one hand down between John's thighs, taking the thick, heavy cock in his hand and rubbing in long, slow strokes, down to the base to tease at John's balls with agile fingertips, and then back up to the tip, gentling his touch to a soft feathering. 

John lowered his head and kissed Harold's mouth, his jaw, his throat, his shoulder. Finally he rested his forehead against Harold's looking into his eyes, and trying to keep his breathing even enough to speak clearly. 

"What do you want?"

"I want you to take me, John."

John closed his eyes, unable to face the depths of longing and desire on Harold's face. Harold, who had given him a job and a purpose and a home and love and acceptance, was now offering himself as well. 

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I want this. I want you, all of you. I want to feel you inside me, John. I want you to take me, to make me yours. And I want you to give yourself to me. I want everything that you are, everything that you have to give." 

Was it possible for two people who, apart, were mere empty shells, two people with no hope and no future, driven only by purpose, was it possible that together, two such people could fill each other up?

"We'll need..."

"Nightstand."

"How?"

"I thought that if I lay on my bad side, with you behind me?"

"Yeah, OK." John's voice was low and rough.

John rolled over and slid open the nightstand drawer. He found a bottle that seemed to be the right shape and size and held it up. Harold nodded. He was slowly hitching himself onto his side, stacking two pillows to support his neck and drawing up the knee of his good leg to give John access. John swallowed, the fragility and vulnerability of Harold's body overwhelming him for a moment. 'Slow and gentle, no matter what, slow and gentle,' he told himself. John lay behind him, spooning close to ward off the chill of the air and drawing the blankets back over both of them. He flipped the cap on the bottle and squeezed some of the cream onto his fingers. While he waited for his body heat to warm it, he kissed Harold's shoulder, neck, ear, temple.

"I love you," he whispered, conscious of having only said it jokingly, earlier, wanting Harold to have no doubt that he meant it with all his heart and soul. He heard Harold sigh as he eased his fingers to rub gently over Harold's entrance, massaging the soft sensitive skin behind his balls and pressing very lightly at the puckered opening with the tip of one finger. He felt Harold relax and lean back into his chest, and he slid the arm he was resting on under Harold's neck so that he could wrap it around his chest and hold him close.

"Is that OK?" he asked, needing to be sure he wasn't causing any pain or discomfort.

"It's wonderful. It's what I imagined this would be like."

"Been thinking about it for a while, have you?" The words were teasing, but gentle, as John reached for the tube of cream again and squeezed more onto his fingers before resuming their gentle probing. John kissed Harold's shoulder again, and dragged the pad of his thumb across a taut nipple as he eased one finger in. 

"I wish I could turn my head to kiss you, John, to show you how good that feels."

"Shhh... just relax and let me, let me give you everything I can," John said, brushing the nipple again and licking a stripe along Harold's collarbone to the hollow of his throat. 

Harold closed his eyes. He let himself sink back into John's warmth, his scent, his touch, his love. Harold let himself feel. The slick fingers were setting his nerves on fire and the warm lips and wet tongue were doing nothing to douse the flames. Harold heard a noise and realized it was himself moaning as he rocked his hips back, chasing more pleasure.

John encouraged him with a low rumbling growl. He had two thick fingers deep inside Harold and was working them, twisting and pressing, getting him ready for a third. John's own cock was painfully hard, trapped against the back of Harold's thigh. His responsiveness was testing John's resolve for 'slow and gentle.' 

"John, please." Harold rocked his hips back again.

"Shh... relax. We have all night."

"How am I supposed to relax when you're making me feel... ohhhh." Harold's voice turned into a breathy sigh as John gently pressed a third finger in, working with exquisite care. Now there was a faint sighing 'oh' with each exhale, as John rocked his fingers in little by little, now crooking them forward and searching for the smooth roundness of Harold's prostate, and stroking it very gently.

"John, oh my God John." Harold reached back, finding his hip and gripping, needing to anchor himself against the wave of sensation. Harold's grip rocked John forward slightly, rubbing his hard cock along the back of Harold's thigh, and another low rumble escaped. 

"Can you feel how much I want you, Harold? How much I need you?"

"Yes John, please, yes. Take me John, I'm ready, please." 

John twisted the three fingers that were buried deep in Harold's tight heat and brushed his knuckles across his prostrate once more before withdrawing them. He shifted up and reached for the condoms on the bedside table.

"I'll get tested again, just to be sure, and then we can dispense with these, but for now..." It wasn't the most erotic pillow-talk, but John needed the distraction while he tore open the packet and rolled the condom on. 

"Are you ready, Harold?" John asked, positioning himself on elbows and knees to keep his weight off Harold’s body.

"Yes."

John pressed in slowly, just a little at first, giving Harold plenty of time to adjust.

"God, John. So good. So good. More please, John. I want you, I want all of you, please John. God so very, very good." The words spilled out of Harold's mouth half gasps and half sobs as John pushed in inch by inch until he was buried deep inside. Harold hitched his knee up further, encouraging John to go deeper, press harder. 

John rested his forehead against Harold's shoulder for a minute, gaining control of himself. 

"I don't want to hurt you," he said, brushing Harold's cheek and the corner of his mouth with his lips.

"You won't. Please John, give me everything. I need you. I want everything you have to give me."

"Harold." It was a desperate plea as John drew partway out and plunged back in.

"Yes, John. Yes. More please, John. More." 

John couldn't deny him this. Couldn't deny him anything. Knew he would never be able to deny Harold anything, ever again, for as long as he lived. Harold wanted all that he was, all that he had to give, and John could deny him nothing. 

Harold gasped and sighed and moaned as John fucked him with long, slow, deep, powerful strokes, each one building on the pleasure of the last until Harold's body sang, each nerve ending sparking with electricity and he heard himself sobbing out John's name over and over. John's cock slid smoothly and powerfully inside him, reaching places he had never known were empty and filling them. 

John heard Harold gasping his name over and over like a plea or a prayer. There was... It was.... He was... He was holding onto the shreds of his control, but wouldn't be able to much longer. His need was too great, Harold's gasps and moans under him too much to bear. He moved one hand, found Harold's thigh, his hip. Slipped his hand into the crease of his groin and wrapped his fingers around Harold's hard straining cock. 

Harold gasped. John's fingers around him were warm and smooth, gentle and sure. How could there be more? How could John possibly tease another drop of pleasure out of his body... out of his soul. And yet he did. With light sweeps and strokes of his fingers, in perfect time to the long slow strokes of his cock, John brought Harold even higher.

"So close. I'm so close John. Take what you need, please. Come for me."

And John could deny him nothing, not even his own pleasure. He plunged in once, twice more, stroking Harold's cock at the same time and felt Harold tense under him. Stroked once more with cock and hand and heard the high keening wail as Harold jerked and spasmed, tightening impossibly for a long moment before achieving complete release. That was the pinnacle for John: having Harold in the throes of orgasm beneath him sent him spiraling into his own sparking whiteness of pleasure and release.

He came back to himself slowly, first hearing the harsh rasp of Harold's breathing then feeling the warm body beneath him. Instinctively he moved, lifting his weight off Harold, and withdrawing carefully. 

Harold made a small sound of dismay and John kissed his shoulder. 

"Be right back." John quickly cleaned up, wrapping the condom in a tissue and tossing it into a wastepaper bin, then crawled back under the covers. 

"Can you roll over, do you want me to help?"

"I'm OK." Harold rolled onto his back and smiled up at John.

"Much better than OK. Was that... what you wanted?"

"It was wonderful. Better than anything I could have imagined. Thank you, John."

"I love you," John said simply, as if it explained everything, which in a way, it now did. 

"Come here?"

Harold moved into John's open arms, pillowing his head on John's chest and wrapping an arm around him possessively.

"I love you too. This is... something I've wanted for a long time."

"You should have said something."

"Like what? By the way, John, I've fallen in love with you?"

"It wouldn't have hurt."

"I don't have your courage."

"You have my courage. You have everything I am. Now and always." 

"And you have everything I can give you, and always will."

John slept very little, dozing occasionally, but he spent most of the night lying with Harold in his arms, watching him sleep. He basked in the feeling of lying entwined, Harold hugging one strong arm to him like a security blanket.

~~~

When Harold woke and made to get up, John said, "Stay there, no need to get up yet. I'll go put water on for my coffee, and your tea." 

"The storm..." Harold asked sleepily.

"I'll check."

Harold dozed, and woke to John putting a fragrant steaming mug on the bedside table and then climbing back into bed. Harold looked up, worried for a moment that there would be some small awkwardness, but John simply coaxed him close, and wrapped strong arms around him. Something settled inside Harold, knowing that he would always have this, now.

"Where do we go from here?" he asked, his analytical brain needing to know, if not exactly where he stood, at least in which direction he was facing.

"I don't know. I've never done this before."

"Done what?"

"Had a... relationship. That... that is what this is?"

"Yes, John, it is. I guess we'll just have to figure it out as we go along. That seems to be what people do, mostly. From what I understand, anyway."

"Sounds like a plan."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks very much to my wonderful cheerleaders and beta-readers: t!, Jamie, i_m_just_jay and thefrogg.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at: [Jo Mathieson](http://jmathieson-fic.tumblr.com/)


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